Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Florentius stands at the top of the steps, his phoenix-red robe immaculate, as though winter dared not touch him. His presence is always eye-catchingly precise, his movements practised to perfection. He never mingles, rarely speaks, but when his gaze finds mine, his lips curl ever so slightly—a silent, grimacing acknowledgment. Then, with a flick of his chin, he gestures to the doors as they creak open.
Inside, the hall gleams. Polished wood floors, tall windows. Portraits of revered men gaze down from high walls. Tables and chairs are arranged in precise rows, a stark contrast to the chaotic snow outside. From a raised platform, five judges observe the entrants, their matching cloaks marking their authority. Redcloaks move among us, directing scholars to their desks.
Feet shuffle. Murmurs of encouragement ripple through the hall, the occasional chair squeaking as people settle in. For others, this might be routine. For me, this is stepping onto a battlefield.
From the judges’ table, Skriniaris Evander’s warm smile offers brief reassurance. But it’s fleeting, smothered by the impassive stares of the others. Behind them, on tiered seating, sit the scrutinising tutors. Chiron is among them, his sharp gaze unyielding, right in my line of sight. Whoever ranks first on day three will earn the chance to work under him in the palace.
I grip the wooden stylus pre-set on my desk as if it’s a lifeline. Its smooth surface feels foreign in my hand.
A snicker from my left cuts through my focus.
“He has no chance,” someone mutters, just loud enough to sting.
I don’t look up. They’re not wrong. Their years of specialised tutoring stand against me.
The centremost judge rises, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as the room falls silent. His voice, crisp and unyielding, fills the space.
“Each desk is assigned a unique signature. Channel magic through the pen provided and write directly onto the surface. Your handwriting will be standardised, and your answers will come to us for assessment. This ensures anonymity and avoids bias.”
His words echo like a challenge.
The judge sits, and the weight of the hall descends.
Around me, scholars lift their pens, magical sparks instantly glowing from the tips.
My pen is unresponsive in my fist, not a single spark no matter how hard I squeeze.
I have to tap into my shaky mystical root for this. Not an issue for pure linea.
Another snicker to my side. How can someone with such weak grounding become a mage, hold a position of trust?
My hands tremble around the stylus, my hitched breaths threatening to give my panic away. Then they’ll have their proof how out of place I am here. This simple task—use a pen. No one but me has to wrench magic out of the wood.
I close my eyes, hearing Quin’s voice: Control and discipline are crucial. Don’t blow us up.
I steady my breathing and sense the faint tick of energy in the wood. Saved by Quin. Again.
From the line of judges up front, Skriniaris Evander stands. “The examination begins now. Patient one . . .”
Heads bow as we scribble down our diagnoses, and the air grows tense as we wait for the judges’ assessments. Skriniaris Evander rises again. “If the signature on your table glows, you have been eliminated.” The hall collectively holds its breath.
My stylus feels heavy in my grip. Is my answer enough? Is the spell the best choice?
A flicker of light catches my eye. I hold my breath, heart thumping as an uproar erupts from a man three rows ahead. “My answer was correct!”
Skriniaris Evander inclines his head. “It wasn’t incorrect, but your choice of cure used such rare herbs that only the royal family could benefit.”
Footsteps clap soundly over the hall; the scholar rises stiffly, face pinched tight. “This is outrageous—”
The judges don’t flinch, and neither do the redcloaks. They grab him by the arms and escort him out. The scholar’s shouts fade into the background as murmurs ripple among the scholars.
Murmurs that they’d expected it to be the par-linea. That’d he’d be next, surely.
I defy their expectations, but the cases are growing more difficult with each round.
I steady my breathing, focusing on the flow of magic through my pen. Sweat beads on my temples, and the scholar beside me glances over, mistaking it for a sign of trouble. He snickers loudly.
Florentius, seated at the front of the hall, shoots a sharp look back. “Quiet.”
Patient twenty-eight. A stonemason with chronic, debilitating headaches, nausea and tingling in his arm. The pain is worst in the mornings but eases when lying down. No spells taken. No family history of illness.
I study the details carefully. It could be a rare brain growth or a muscle injury affecting nerves. His heavy lifting and lack of recovery time might have worsened an old injury. The tingling arm suggests a secondary issue, possibly a nutrient deficiency. One spell . . .